The Science of Self-Destruction
by Callie Anaka
Summary: Sherlock can't cope after the fall. Rated for self harm and suicidal ideation.


Sherlock Holmes is gone. He died when he fell. I breathe but I am not alive. Not really. I am empty, I am hollow, I am nothing but a body. No longer a consulting detective, a brother,_ a friend._ I'm not really here. This isn't happening. _It can't be._

•••**Sunday**•••

_I don't want to say it, because that makes it real. It means that this really is the end. And, God, I don't want this to be the end. But I have to, it's time._

"_Goodbye John." It hurts. I wanted to tell him how much he means to me, but I throw the phone aside, continuing to stare ahead, to keep my eyes on him. My friend. Everything's spinning, and I can't think. I can't breathe. I force my arms away from my sides. Just like flying... _

_I'm scared. No, not just scared. Terrified. I'm shaking, my heart is racing. I'd always thought that I would be ready to die, but then again, this is not the way I pictured my life ending. And John... What will John think? I'm the one dying, but the tragedy is his._

_I'm running out of time. One last breath, in and out so painfully slow. John screams my name. It'll be ok. He will be fine without me, right? This is what I have to do, for my friends. For John. Leaning forward, I let gravity take me._

_Please, God, let me live._

I wake up right as I hit the ground, as my head breaks open and blood begins to pour out. It's the same every time. My breathing is fast and I find that I have fallen out of bed. Covering my face with my hands, I try to relax. _Just focus on the room around you, on the feeling of your clothes against your skin, the cold floor beneath you._ But I can't bring myself out of it, can't stop the panic, the pain. The dream, no matter how many times I have it, seems real. Just as real as when I fell. I relive it constantly. _It's destroying me_.

After a few minutes, I manage to remove my hands from my face, to slow my breathing and push myself up off the ground. I feel too weak to stand. Maybe because I haven't eaten in a few days. Or has it been longer? Shaking my head, I decide it doesn't really matter. _What would John say?_ I almost laugh when I remember all the times he'd had to remind me to eat. He'd always taken care of me. _Oh John..._

It wasn't until I'd lost him that I realized just how much I depended on him, how badly I needed him. I want to tell him, I want to go home and be with him, but I can't risk it. Moriarty's people could still come after him. I won't let my feelings be the end of him, too.

"_Caring is not an advantage_." My brother's words repeat in my mind. He's right, if I didn't care, I would be fine. _I would be alive_. But I find that I would do it all over again to save my friends, that I do care. Despite the effects on me, the state of my own life, I do not regret my choice, only my last thought.

Had I known what would become of me, how it would destroy everything that was Sherlock Holmes, I wouldn't have asked to live.

•••

Another day, almost gone. Tomorrow I'll wake up to the same pain, to the same empty sadness. Walking around the city today did nothing for me. I can't read people the way I used to. Deductions have become difficult. My emotions have blinded me, made me someone else. Ordinary, dull, _dead_.

Without my work, without John, I have nothing. I see no future, nothing of any importance to keep me here. It's all hopeless. My emotions are crushing me and I can't stop it. A darkness surrounds me. It's getting worse...

There is one solution. One way to stop the pain. John wouldn't like it much. But what does that matter? I'm dead to him already.

I'm going to jump again on Saturday, if I haven't died before then.

I know it's wrong, but it makes me smile, knowing I have something to look forward to, knowing that I won't have to do this for much longer. The countdown begins, and for this first time in months, I'm almost happy.

•••**Monday**•••

I roll over in my bed, tightly holding my stomach_. _Starvation was a slow way to go, Saturday will probably come around before it ends me, but I like the empty feeling. It promises a way out if I can't bring myself to jump again. A backup plan. It's always smart to have one.

Still, _it hurts_. I've become too weak to leave my flat. Maybe something small, just one meal, will help me have enough strength to move around. Just enough strength for 6 more days.

With some difficulty I walk to the kitchen. It's nearly empty. I rarely remember to buy food, and I have no John to shop for me. I decide on bread and begin to eat it, but it doesn't feel right. No, _I can't die if I eat_. Spitting out whatever was left in my mouth, I run to the bathroom and fall to my knees, fingers roughly finding their way down my throat. I taste blood, but I push my hand in deeper, harder, until everything comes out. Empty again, wasting away. _Perfect._

"You're getting so thin," John says, arms crossed as he stands by the door, looking worried. "I wish you'd eat something, Sherlock, and maybe keep it down, too." I stare at him in disbelief. _He can't be here._

"John?" I stand up, desperately fighting through the dizziness. My world is spinning. My thoughts are racing. _He can't be here. _I walk towards him and I can't believe what I'm seeing, but some part of me hopes he is real.

"Sherlock? Something wrong?" I reach out, wanting nothing more than to touch him, to be with my friend, but he's gone, vanished right in front of me. I am alone again. I have been all along.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me_. No, not anymore. I am destroying myself. My mind is tearing itself apart.

And I don't care.

•••

It was a rather odd idea, but I'd thought about it quite often ever since I'd taken up smoking again.

Sometimes when I'd examined bodies I'd noticed burn marks, cuts, bruises on their arms and legs. All self-inflicted. Although it isn't funny, I almost laugh as I realize I'm spiraling towards my death in the same way. _I'm losing control._

And so I stand, cigarette in hand, looking over my pale arm. Carefully, I touch the tip to my skin, pulling back almost instantly.It hurts, more than I'd expected. But I try it again, once again only touching for a second.

I wish the pain would stop, but I realize that I am able to feel. Something about it makes me smile, makes it just worth it enough to burn myself a third time, then a fourth.

•••**Tuesday**_ •••_

"_No, alright, stop it now." I want to tell him the truth. It hurts to lie to him, my only friend, the person who cares for me more than anyone else. But I have to. He can't know I died for him, I care about him too much to do that. The pain it causes me is worth it. He's worth dying for, after all. And what could be more painful than dying?_

"_No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." It's not like I'll have to live with it._

"_Alright." _

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me." I try to stay calm, but I know how desperate I sound. "Please, will you do this for me?"_

"_Do what?"_

"_This phone call, it's my note." I'm sorry, John."That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

"_Leave a note when?" He wants to deny it. So do I. But it's very real. _

_All that's left to say now is goodbye..._

•••

Self-destruction is not a problem for me anymore. I am far past the point of return. I am too close to death. Mycroft would call this a danger night. But wasn't every night now?

I sit on the bathroom floor, sleeves rolled up past my elbows, and lean against the wall, allowing my head to fall back. My eyes are closed as I try to slow my breathing, to relax. Tonight I try something new, something I know I shouldn't do. I'm too weak to leave my flat and get drugs. I have to save all my remaining energy to jump. Burning myself again isn't an option, either. That just didn't work.

But I need a distraction. _This will have to do._ I open my eyes again and pick up a small razor, twisting it in my hands, studying it for a moment before I place it on my wrist. I feel the cool metal and try to control my shaking hands. I need to remain in control, just a little longer. _It's almost over_. Remembering that is enough of a comfort to calm me down, just enough.

I let my eyes close. Hesitating slightly, I press down, then drag the blade across my skin. When I finally look down at my wrist, beads of blood had already begun forming in a line. The pain is nice, relaxing. It doesn't hurt too much, just stings. I can handle it. I do not hesitate so much when making the next cut. I allow the blade to tear into my skin, gasping as another wave of pain hits me.

This one's deeper. The sides don't touch. I watch as blood fills the wound then spills over, leaving streaks of red running down my arm. Something about it is satisfying, so I continue, each time with more pressure. The sound of my flesh splitting is strangely exciting. It makes me feel alive again, as if the world was coming back into focus and I can suddenly feel.

When I finally run out of skin, I stop and realize just how much blood I'm losing. But it doesn't scare me. Nothing could now.

The dizziness is coming back, so I lay down, curling up on my side, watching as blood pools on the floor next to me. Something about it makes me laugh, maybe just because I can't cry.

Everything seems to be spinning. It's making me sick. Allowing my eyes to close, I let sleep take me.

Maybe if I'm really lucky, I won't wake up.

•••**Wednesday**•••

"_I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for a second that I am one of them."_

"_No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No, you're me. You're me. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes." No, something's wrong. What did I miss? Why can't I think? "Thank you. Bless you." I feel him take my hand. I want to pull away, but I can't."As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out. Well good luck with that." As he pulls a gun out, I force my hand out of his and step back, then watch as he falls._

_I feel myself begin to panic, my thoughts race. I can hardly breathe. I'm dead. I'm going to die. All because he was right. I am ordinary for not seeing it coming._

_What will I tell John?_

I come out of my daze_._ The flashbacks were becoming far more frequent, a common occurrence every time I found myself with nothing to do but think. My mind has become my enemy, has become useless.

I guess I truly have lost everything.

•••

It's like science, my life an experiment. How much can I take? How long before I break?

_An experiment in self-destruction_. I used to love experiments, they gave me something to think about, something to keep busy when not working on a case. But this is different. Drugs, starving, burning, cutting. It's all a test, a stupid experiment with a terrible end. I don't know why I continue.

_Will I make it to Saturday?_

•••**Thursday**•••

The clock says 2am. It's going to be another sleepless night.

I'd managed to get my violin back when John had gone through the apartment, when he'd finally given up on me coming back and couldn't be reminded of me anymore. It actually hadn't taken long, and it was nice to get some of my things back. My clothes, which now hung loosely on my body, and some of my science equipment for all my experiments, along with my violin. John kept my scarf, so I'd bought a new one. I'd seen him wearing mine once.

I'd lost interest in music for a while. I didn't have the energy to play, and it reminded me of John. He'd loved listening. Now, something about it was comforting, as if somehow music could help me escape my loneliness.

I stay seated, too weak to stand, and begin to play the song I'd written for Irene. She was clever, she'd made a great distraction. Now I wished that I could go back, be with her and John again. Even feeling the pain of her "death" would be a nice change.

I'm too dead to feel.

I want to stand as I play, I want to move as I used to. _Maybe I can_. But I overestimate my strength, and as I get up the world goes black. Dizziness then nothing.

•••

The sun's coming up now. Warm, red light shines through the windows onto the floor where I lay. I look around at the mess, at the papers, _at my violin. _Too afraid I'll collapse again if I try to stand, I crawl over to it and pick it up. _Broken. _My vision becomes blurred and I allow myself to cry. It is devastating. I'm too weak to move on. With the last remaining piece of my old life gone, I make my decision.

I can't wait until Saturday. This has to end, _now_.

It takes a great amount of effort for my shaking arms to push me up off the floor, and I can't help but wonder, _will I be able to walk?_ Quickly I realize that I can, but it's difficult. My eyes don't want to stay open and I feel my brain shutting down. Somehow I manage to stay on my feet and walk to the bathroom, then turn on the shower.

The water's too hot, it stings as it runs over the wounds on my arms. But the pain is strangely relaxing so I don't move, I just let myself feel for a moment, but not too long. The dizziness comes back and I can feel my pulse quicken. The heat is making me sleepy. I think I could die right here, but I decide to go with my original plan. _Just a little longer, then you can let go._ I turn off the water, get out, and dry myself.

The air in my flat feels as cold as ice when it touches my skin, but it keeps me awake, although the shaking in my arms and legs becomes worse. After gathering my clothes, I shave and wash my face, then step back and look at myself.

Staring into the mirror, I don't see Sherlock. I see a monster, what remains of a man who has destroyed himself in every way possible. Sickly, skeletally thin with dark, empty eyes and ghostly white skin. Bright red cuts and blisters from burns cover my arms. My hands run down my body, feeling sharp bones, now completely visible. I am disgusting, weak, _dying_. And I don't care. I can't.

Dressing takes me awhile. Moving hurts too much. Not that I really want to go fast. No, I want to make it last. This is my last day alive, after all. Purple shirt first, then black pants and jacket, and finally my scarf. I tie it carefully around my long, thin neck, then go back to the mirror and take one final look. _Almost myself again. _Something about it makes me reconsider, only for a second.

I pull my coat on quickly, carelessly, feeling still-healing cuts on my arms tear open again. I know it should hurt, but it doesn't. My body and mind seem to be separate, no longer working together. Part of me can't believe I've made it this far.

I take my time walking through the city, allowing myself to remember all the days I'd spent busy with John. I need something, good memories, to keep me moving.

•••

There is no fear this time. Just...relief. _It's finally over._ I smile and breathe out slowly, finally in control again. Too bad it's only in the end. Stepping up, I look over the edge, down at the streets and try not to think about how much hitting the ground hurts. I close my eyes, take one final moment to listen to the life around me. But then I hear it, someone behind me. _Just jump, nothing can stop you now._

"Oh, dear brother." _He can't be here._ It's just a trick, my mind's failing me. It's time to die. I'm ready to die. I close my eyes again and try to ignore him. "Sherlock, please, get down." When I turn around and look, he is there. Mycroft is standing close enough to touch me. I can see that he is scared, and it seems real. But it's just a trick, just like when I saw John.

"You're not here. You can't be." _Please, don't be real. _I need to die. I don't want him to stop me.

"I assure you, Sherlock, I am here. Now _please_, get down." He reaches out and takes my hand, holding it tightly. "Please, brother, don't make me fall with you." I step down, still holding his hand, and look into his eyes. He's real. _He shouldn't be here._

"How did you find me?"

"You were seen walking the streets earlier this week. I managed to have you tracked back to your flat." He hesitates before he continues, something very strange for my brother. "Sherlock, if I had known, I wouldn't have waited so long. I'm sorry." With his free hand, he rolls up my sleeve, exposing the mess of cuts. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

It takes me a moment to realize I'm crying. I feel him take me in my arms, and although his touch is unfamiliar, it seems right. I allow him to hold me as I finally feel the sadness I had been unable to feel for so long.

I can feel my body begin to shut down. _Please don't let me pass out again. _My legs become weak, and as I collapse I hear my brother speak.

"_It's going to be alright, Sherlock. I'm going to get you help."_

**Please leave a review. I'd really like to improve my writing, so any comments would be helpful.**


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